The half-stripped trees struck by a wind together, bending all, the leaves flutter drily and refuse to let go or driven like hail stream bitterly out to one side and fall where the salvias, hard carmine,— like no leaf that ever was— edge the bare garden.

Do you think your heart is dead? Is it too broken this time? Every winter the flowers crumble and the trees die. And every spring, He gives them life again. Can not the One who gives life to the dead land, give life to your dead heart? Yasmin Mogahed